Date Night
by CSI Clue
Summary: Cuddy goes outHouse intercedes.


Date Night

Lunch was cold. He liked it cold. Nothing better than a cold Reuben with no pickle. Across from him, Wilson was looking over the enchiladas on his own plate with more than a hint of regret.

"House, I STILL can't figure out how you can eat those things and not have either severe acid reflux or a hiatal hernia by now."

"I thought you knew—I'm composed of three fourths bile."

"Touché—although that does come off as a self-generated negativism you know."

"What are you now, my life coach?" House grumbled. "Here to keep me from the downward spiral of my own depression?"

Wilson thought about that for a moment and shook his head. "Nah. I don't think anyone can survive your vortex of evil."

House arched an eyebrow at him and bit the sandwich menacingly. "So you're saying I suck."

"How can I argue with that?" Wilson dimpled, neatly slicing a section off of his enchilada. "Once again your capacity for succinct encapsulation reigns supreme—unlike this lunch."

"Wait until it hits your colon, about three AM tomorrow," House managed a gleeful grin. "You'll learn why they call that particular dish the Fiesta Flush."

Wilson set his forkful down, pushed the plate away and shot House a long-suffering look. "Thank you SO much for allowing me to drop six fifty on a lunch I'm afraid to eat now."

"If I'd really been annoyed about your vortex analogy I would have let you eat the damn things and suffer the consequences," House pointed out blithely thought a mouthful of Reuben. "So there."

"Fine. You're a prince among men," Wilson groused, poking at the Spanish rice on the side of the dish. "A real hero."

"I thought you were holding out for a hero."

"I'd settle for a BLT," Wilson shot back, "Unlike Cuddy."

House stared at Wilson for a moment and sighed, setting down his food. "She has a date?"

This was bad news. He wasn't sure why, but it sat in his stomach like a ball of lead; heavy and unsettling.

"Yes, finally. I heard it from Marsha who said Brenda had seen the Email on her desk. She's off tonight to Willows for dinner with a Doctor Steve Hamilton." Wilson responded, finally giving in to the rice and scooping up a forkful.

"Hamilton, Hamilton— vascular surgeon from Memorial?" House mused. So. A date. Cuddy finally doing more than just flirting online. Finally getting over that wimp artist of an ex. Interesting. And annoying, House decided.

"Dunno, probably. Why do you care? I'd think you'd prefer it if Cuddy mellowed out a little—"

"Dating wouldn't make that woman mellow," came the terse reply. "She'll be as competitive in that as everything else."

"Maybe," Wilson considered it with a slight wince, "But the point is that she's making an attempt to connect to other people, House. Working on her life outside the hospital."

"Certainly—although WE'LL be the ones to gossip about her. Here—" House pushed his plate over to Wilson, "Have half a Reuben. I have something to go check on." He rose up and left the cafeteria, leaving Wilson to dubiously eye the sandwich.

Cuddy looked in the little compact and checked her lipstick once more, feeling a tightness in her stomach. It had been a while since she'd done this—gone out, testing the waters so to speak. After her breakup with Daniel, she hadn't much wanted to see anyone, and there was always work to deal with, more and more of it to fill that long void. But she was ready now. Really. Vogler was gone, Stacy was back, House was behaving, and nobody was falling off her roof, and yes, she was ready.

So where was this guy?

She looked up and around the lushly elegant dining room of Willows, feeling more nervous than ever. Cuddy checked her watch, and tried not to let her anxiety show. The table overlooked the atrium down below, and the garden was lit up artistically, highlighting the paths and statues. A beautiful little place, really. Romantic—

"Hi—" came the voice, and startled, because it was familiar, Cuddy turned to look up at House. Instantly she scowled, a sense of outrage rising even as she noticed he was wearing the blue shirt she liked, and a jacket. And a tie of all things.

A tie?

"House, what are YOU doing here?" Cuddy hissed, glaring at him with a stare that should have set his hair on fire at the very least. He looked completely calm as he loomed over her, a file under his arm, his expression bland.

"Considering the veal, actually. Oh, and telling you that you might want to go ahead and order. I don't think Steve's going to make it tonight," he told her in a mild voice.

Hard to maintain the blasé tone though, he admitted to himself. Cuddy was in a little black dress that definitely put the va va right in the old voom. Nice low neckline showing off the prime sweater meat, and backless to boot—the sort of dress that coyly reminded a man with every glance that the wearer was half naked here. Booty buffet in black—

"House, roll your tongue up and tell me what the hell you're talking about!" Cuddy hissed politely. He gave a put-upon sigh and slid the folder in front of her on the table.

Time to nip this in the bud.

"Seems Doctor Hamilton isn't going to be here because he's been picked up for a little problem with his ex-wife. Seven years of non-payment of support for their three kids, more specifically. Amazing how he can afford a racing boat, a condo and ski vacations in Aspen, but can't remember to send a little something to the kiddies every month for clothes and food, huh?"

Cuddy paled, and laid a hand on the folder but didn't open it. She glanced from it to House and blinked a moment, gathering her wits. She took a breath.

House appreciated that. Deeply. From his current vantage point over her, it was just amazing to see the shift and swell of those breasts in that snug cleavage . . .

"House!" came her frustrated whisper, "SIT."

"Woof," he automatically responded, but grudgingly gave up the view of the Grand Tetons for a seat opposite Cuddy at the little table. A waiter glided over.

"I see your party as arrived?" he asked smoothly. Flustered, Cuddy began to protest, but House smiled reassuringly at the man and reached for the menus. Cuddy stared as the waiter refilled the water glasses.

"So," he commented lightly, handing her one of the folders and managing a slightly uncomfortable smile, "What looks good?"

"Veal piccata is the specialty of the night, along with grilled salmon almandine, and Sicilian pesto, sir," came the soft reply. Cuddy began to protest, but House shook his head.

"We'll need a few minutes, thanks—" The waiter walked away, and Cuddy leaned forward, blue eyes blazing.

This was another move House appreciated, along with the deep breathing.

"What are you DOING?"

"Offering myself in Steve's place, of course. I realize I'm not a jet-setting surgeon into boating and weekends in the Hamptons, but then again, I don't have a cast-off family I'm trying to dodge either," House replied as he pretended to scan the menu.

This was the critical moment, he realized. Cuddy's fury balancing out against her reluctance to create a scene in public. House made it a point to adjust his tie, drawing her attention back to the fact he'd made a little effort here.

Which still puzzled him a bit.

He'd gauged his chances of actually managing to have dinner with Cuddy at slightly better than sixty two percent, figuring in that the minimum grooming would bump it up a point or two. So all in all, he reasoned on a solid sixty four to sixty five percent chance he'd get away with veal and vitriol this evening. House could manage both of those just fine, considering the potential dessert that lingered in the back of his mind. He looked up at Cuddy, then nodded at the folder in her hands.

"The value menu is on the left side—" he murmured. "If you're taking pity on my finances."

"Oh give me a break," Cuddy snapped back in a low, angry voice. "I'm NOT going to have dinner with you, House."

"I understand," he empathized, "And I appreciate it, you know, wanting to get straight to the sex and all but honestly, I need some fuel first. I really like veal piccata."

"Screw the veal."

"Kinky, but not my style," he countered. "I'm more of a people person in that department."

"I don't care if you dress up as a nun and hump pygmy goats in front of a picture window with the drapes wide open and a camera crew filming it," Cuddy hissed, setting down the menu and running her hand on the file House had left in front of her. "The truth is, you've managed to RUIN my evening, and that entitles me to be a little angry."

House blinked wide blue eyes at her, his smirk lingering on his mouth as he noted the stormy glint in her gaze, the throaty growl of her voice, appreciating how those little hints of passion were enough to make parts of him sit up and take notice. He leaned forward. "What order of nun? Benedictine or Franciscan?"

Cuddy pursed her mouth, and he sensed her irritation was rising to the danger zone, so he shook his head and glanced back at the menu. "Come on, Cuddy, just pick something out and pull your blood sugar up. Think of it as your one chance to stick me with an outrageous bill."

She worked her jaw back and forth for a moment, clearly torn by the temptation. House waggled the menu a little. "Appetizers, a decadent pasta dish, a really expensive wine—come on, you could really make this hurt."

"What no discount coupons?" Cuddy muttered back, finally opening her menu with a little huff. House watched her a second, then went back to his own perusal, feeling a little spark of victory settle in his stomach.

Well, slightly south of his stomach, anyway.

The waiter returned, pad in hand, shooting expectant looks at both of them, and House shifted his gaze to Cuddy, no smirk now, just quiet intensity in his gaze. She looked away.

"Shrimp cocktail, seafood al fresco, no bread, salad with vinaigrette, please."

"Very good, Ma'am, and you, sir?"

"I'll go with the shrimp too, veal piccata for the main course and your minestrone. Something in a dry white Chablis to go with it, please."

After the menus had been returned, and the waiter dispatched, Cuddy looked down at the file, and very deliberately handed it back to House. He accepted it with the same grave courtesy, and tucked it under his chair.

Cuddy leaned back, eyeing him with a sharp scrutiny; he enjoyed seeing her try to calculate her next move in this duel. She gave a slight shake of her head.

"This isn't a date," she announced. House said nothing. Cuddy continued, her voice gaining confidence. "You didn't ask me out; we didn't plan a time and place in advance for this. I was here, you showed up, we're merely eating at the same time—"

"—But I'm paying for both meals," House countered smoothly, "And you ARE dressed in a fashion that could induce lycanthropy in a boy scout."

"This outfit wasn't for YOU," Cuddy snapped. House nodded, examining it again, and focusing on all his favorite parts.

"I agree—take it off."

"House!"

"Fine wear it then—or almost wear it as the case may be."

Cuddy lifted her chin and closed her eyes. House waited four seconds—the approximate count was important—before adding in a tight voice, "What little there is looks amazing on you."

Her eyes popped open; House fidgeted with his napkin while she laughed softly.

"Will wonders never cease. You MEANT that."

"I wouldn't have said it if I didn't mean it," he grumbled, feeling a little knot of tension in his shoulders. Cuddy shook her head.

"Of course you would. If you'd said it to be flippant, or annoying or sarcastic you would have been watching my eyes to gauge my reactions. But you looked away, House. You told me I looked nice and didn't check to see how I'd take it," she mused. "I may die of shock."

"Old and bitter and annoying I may be, but I DO have testosterone," House shot back. Before Cuddy could respond, the waiter returned, carrying two crystal goblets filled with cocktail sauce and ringed with pink shrimp. With a flourish he set one before Cuddy and the other in front of House. Both of them waited until the young man left before speaking again. Cuddy delicately speared a shrimp with the tiny appetizer fork and dipped it in the sauce.

"Fine. You look very nice too," came her grudging reply. House shrugged began to eat his own shrimp, managing a grudging snort.

"I don't look nice; I look presentable. At times, if I work at it, maybe in some small way, distinguished. Just because my shirt's clean and I slapped on deodorant doesn't move me onto GQ's best dressed list."

"Deodorant too? How much Vicodin have you HAD tonight?" Cuddy retorted. "Oh, wait—Willows does have that pesky shirt and shoes policy, don't they?"

"It's a high-end joint for a first date," House agreed. "So you're either cruising for money or respectability. I'm judging the latter since Hamilton is easily fifteen years older than you are. Looking to be a trophy wife dispensing mercy sex? Or just considering the two-career power couple thing with conveniently scheduled sessions?"

Cuddy nearly choked on a shrimp; she covered with a quick swallow of water and House finished his appetizer while he waited. Finally she set her fork down and flicked her gaze up at him; he tensed at the dangerous curve of her lips, the slightest lift at the corners.

"Since we're not on a date, and certainly not trying to make good impressions on each other, I'll tell you what—ask whatever the hell you want, but I get to do the same. The plain, unvarnished truth about things. After all, if you're going to pay for this dinner, you might as well pay big, right?"

House paused. This was an unexpected but intriguing turn of events, and while he knew Cuddy was as adroit a liar as any he'd met, his gut told him this little dare was on the level. She'd give only if she had a chance to take too.

He drew the moment out, considering it. Cuddy pushed her cocktail aside and kept her gaze on him, giving him time to think as the soft sounds of cutlery on china and quiet murmurs of conversation drifted around them in the restaurant. Finally House thrust his chin out a little.

"Deal."

"Good. In answer to your question, I'm human, House. Unlike you, I occasionally want to go out with someone and talk about things OTHER than Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. I want to spend time with someone who might actually see me as a woman once in a while."

"In THAT dress, EVERYONE sees you're a woman," House replied, arching an eyebrow at her. "Not that you've been particularly slacking around the hospital either for that matter."

Cuddy shook her head. "You got your answer, it's MY turn."

"Fine," he replied, steeling himself for the inevitable 'What are you REALLY doing here?' question she was sure to ask.

"Why didn't you marry Stacy?"

He quickly glanced down at the table, absently noting the wet ring his water glass was leaving on the burgundy tablecloth, the slightly bent tine on his fork. House felt a flare of angry panic surge and recede; he didn't look up until he was sure his face was neutral.

Cunning, cunning Cuddy. Broadsided and no mistake.

"Because . . . I never had the courage to ask her," House finally intoned, his glance up and away, looking at skyward things. He noticed Cuddy fight her impulse to comfort; hold her hand back from reaching out to touch his. Her expression was an odd twist of embarrassed defiance as she touched the pearls at her throat instead.

"Oh."

The salad and soup arrived at that moment; clearly relieved, Cuddy fussed with hers. By the time both of them had a first mouthful, House felt himself back on track. If she wanted to get personal, he'd be happy to return the favor. House dropped his spoon in his soup.

"I think it's my turn again. So . . . when did you first give head?" he demanded sweetly. Cuddy fought her distaste, eyeing House through a half-closed glare. He managed a slight leer. "Inquiring minds want to know, so we can get the facts straight on the stall door later."

"Instead of making up whatever you want, the way you usually do. Considerate," Cuddy countered. She thought back for a moment, and when she smirked, House felt a pang of unreasonable . . . something. Not quite anger, not quite annoyance. Something like it though.

"Sixteen," she replied slowly. "And a half. I finally talked Bobby Marzorina into it, just to see if I could."

"Let me get this straight—you had to talk a teenage boy INTO a blowjob?" House shook his head in bewilderment. Cuddy flashed a devastating smile, but didn't meet his eyes.

"Who said Bobby was a teenager?"

"Oho HO," House gave an exaggerated double take. "Seductive schoolgirl scenario—I LIKE those!"

"So did he," Cuddy managed to look innocent—no mean feat considering her smug smirk. House finished his shrimp, mostly to buy himself a little time to settle down, south of the border. Inwardly he delighted at the last give and take of that question, of Cuddy's brazen reply.

"So what was he?"

"Not your turn. I get to ask a question," Cuddy reminded him mildly. House wasn't pleased, but held off his curiosity as Cuddy slowly ate more of her salad, appearing to consider what she would ask next.

"Well?" he finally demanded, a trifle impatiently, only to have her wave at his soup.

"Eat; it will get cold if you don't."

"I already HAVE a mother," House pointed out acidly, but he picked up the spoon anyway and began to scoop up noodles. Cuddy picked through her salad, looking entertained at some inner thought, and House watched her carefully.

"Yes?"

"Who told you I was going out tonight?" She sweetly demanded, her words light, but the sharp glare of her eyes cutting. House shrugged; an easy one.

"I heard it from Wilson. Who heard it from Nurse Phal, who heard it from Franny the cafeteria lady who heard it from Carl in accounting who's been feverishly monitoring your online activities since the day you bent over his desk and let him glory in the view of your Bathshebas there," he rolled out, delighting in the embellishments. Never mind that only part of it was true; it sounded good and judging from the rise of pink along Cuddy's cheeks, was close enough to the truth to do the trick. She jabbed her lettuce with far more force than needed.

"Just. Lovely." She managed between gritted teeth. House drank the last of his soup with gusto, feeling cheered to be back on top. He gave a sigh of faux sympathy.

"The grapevine of PPTH is a tangled trellis of amazing depth and complexity," House pointed out. "I have this theory that at least half the time it predicts as it reports. Speculation materializing into fact."

"Sped on the way by malicious minds with too much free time," Cuddy snapped back. "Maybe the safest way to insure my privacy would be to send out a department-wide memo of my intentions, since it's apparent nobody reads THOSE."

"Cameron does," House admitted, "And Wilson. My turn."

Cuddy pushed her half-eaten salad away and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms in front of herself. The defensive posture looked both familiar and feminine; piqued prettiness that made House long to run a finger along her bare collarbone to feel Cuddy shiver.

"Why . . . did you break up with Daniel? The REAL reason; not whatever crap you might spout to your tennis buddies or nail salon operator or your sister. The truth, Cuddy."

She looked pale. Carefully, she glanced around, as if worried that someone nearby might suddenly take an interest in the conversation, then leaned forward, arms still crossed.

The waiter came up and began to collect the dishes. House irritably let him, and leaned forward to stare at Cuddy once more. Her mouth twitched.

"It's personal," she retorted. House thrust his stubbly chin out.

"Well DUH! Of course it is. You don't break up with lovers over professional considerations. Given the state of your agitation, I'd say it's a long-term dilemma, and the fact that you've dressed to the nines tonight points to something along the lines of . . . dysfunctionality, maybe?"

Bingo. Cuddy flushed and deliberately looked away, but he could see the rapid beat of her pulse along her slender throat. A twinge of desire rose though him at the sight of her neck, smooth and muscled. She'd feel the brush of his stubble and shiver, maybe moan a little as he kissed her under her ear . . .

"Yes, okay, fine. Daniel had a problem with . . . premature ejaculation."

"Trigger trouble," House cheerfully nodded. "Frustrating—or so I've heard."

"It's a common problem," Cuddy pointed out defensively, "lots of men have a tendency to . . . jump the gun."

"Not all of us," House replied in a tone that made her finally meet his eyes. "And even so, it's my understanding from other people that with therapy that sort of problem can be dealt with."

"I think it's MY turn again," Cuddy shot back, her eyes glittering now, although House couldn't tell if it was with anger or humiliation. Cuddy had always been good at putting up walls when she felt threatened, and he gave her a nod as the waiter returned bearing a tray with two steaming dishes on it.

"Seafood al fresco for the lady, and veal for the gentleman—" he intoned cheerily, setting the dishes down. With swift efficiency he decanted the wine and poured them each a glass, then slipped away again after receiving assurances from both House and Cuddy that everything looked good.

House dug in with gusto, neatly slicing a section of veal and tasting it as Cuddy made a tentative twirl of pasta on her fork.

"How much do you resent me for what happened to your leg?" she asked in a soft, strained voice.

House flinched a tiny bit, marveling again at how Cuddy's scattered questions kept popping out of left field. There was no logic to them that he could see, no pattern beyond the random. He glanced up at her, and then back down to his plate.

"I used to resent you quite a bit. Now . . . not so much."

She looked suddenly vulnerable, her shoulders slumping a bit as his response sank in, and House sighed harshly. He took a long sip of wine. "Stop it with the wounded puppy eyes, Lisa. You did what you had to do. Whether or not I would have done the same thing isn't relevant anymore."

"It's relevant to ME," she told him, reaching for her wine and drinking it. House let the surprise of that sink in, and stared at her once more.

"Yes, well guilt isn't a good look for you, so let it go. Of course I resented you. And Stacy. And anybody on the planet with unimpaired ambulatory function. Hell, I hated Mother Teresa and Bishop Tutu as well. I got over it."

"Did you?"

"Ennnnnh," House made a buzzer noise, "My turn for a question. Eat your pasta, by the way. If I'm paying for it, you're carrying it home in your stomach, not a Styrofoam box. Let's see—" he drawled out, cutting more veal up and chewing on it. His timing was perfect; just as Cuddy managed a forkful of pasta, House asked, "How many times a week are you using your vibrator?"

For a long moment she stared at him; House didn't smile, or smirk as he shook his head slowly and spoke again. "It's a dangerous habit. You get acclimated to only one way of reaching a climax when you use one regularly. Better to change techniques, or better yet, find a real lover—but I'm sure that's why you're finally getting out there and dating."

"I'm touched by your concern for my masturbatory health," Cuddy finally murmured. My turn, how's yours?"

"I keep a hand in," House shot back. "But you didn't answer my question, Doctor Cuddy. How many times a week?"

"House—" she gave an exasperated snort," Do you really think I'm going to tell you THAT?"

"Yes," he replied quietly. "I asked, and so far I've been answering YOUR questions."

A little pause circled the table; Cuddy twirled her fork in her pasta again, finally sighing.

"It's a no-win situation. If I don't tell you, you'll make something up, and if I DO tell you, I have no assurance you'll keep it to yourself. And to top it all off it's really REALLY none of your concern."

"Come on, Cuddy, my whole raison d'etre is meddling in other people's lives. All of doctorhood is based on that premise when you think about it. Besides, we're dealing with the plain, unvarnished truth here," House pointed out in a very gentle voice. "A show-me-yours-and –I'll-show-you-mine deal, remember?"

Cuddy tried to look annoyed, but the tiniest of smirks crooked the corner of her mouth up, and she gave in with a sigh and half-whispered. "Three times a week, I think. Depends on when I get home and what's on TV."

"Ah. Leno before lovin'," House commiserated. "A woman with priorities."

"Some nights are like that," Cuddy commented. She meant it to be a light, throwaway sort of reply, but somewhere along the way a hint of loneliness tinged it, and House felt a corresponding pang within himself; nobody knew the isolation of a doctor's life as well as another doctor.

"Yes," House agreed slowly. "Some are."

They ate in silence for a few moments; comfortable in not speaking. Cuddy gaze a little sigh of satisfaction a while later. "The fresco is good."

House nodded, holding out a forkful of veal, "So's this. Want some?"

Cuddy hesitated, looking at the proffered bite. "That's pretty flirtatious of you."

House looked annoyed; mostly because she was right. "I could spit on it first if you'd like."

With feline grace, Cuddy cupped her hand around his and guided the fork to her mouth, slipping the tidbit of veal into her mouth and gently chewing. House watched her with a keen eye, feeling an odd sense of pleasure at feeding her. Stacy had never been willing to share anything off his fork, not even after they'd begun living together. She'd always made it a point to use her own utensil every time.

"It IS good," Cuddy murmured. House nodded, not pulling his hand out of hers, keeping his voice light.

"Where's mine?"

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "I knew there was a catch."

"What can I say? I'm hungry." House admitted. He didn't add that while one appetite was being sated, another less obvious one still lingered. Cuddy released her hold on his hand, expertly speared a prawn and wrapped it in pasta, then held it out. House smirked. She pulled the fork back a moment.

"All your talk about hiring prostitutes—is any of it true?" she asked him in a low, curious voice. House looked at the buttery prawn, then at her.

"Give me the pasta first."

Cuddy thought about that, her face a comical twist of wariness and amusement. "Okay."

House tugged the fork towards himself and slurped up the al fresco with gusto, then licked the last of it off his bottom lip. "Lovely touch of garlic. In all honesty, I've rarely hired a prostitute for sex. I hire them for other things."

Cuddy blinked. "Other things?"

"Not your turn! See, THIS is why you don't get asked to parties—you bring your bossy voice home from work. Try to keep track here, Lisa. It's MY turn to ask a question."

"Sorry, I was trying to figure out what you'd use a hooker for besides sex, " she retorted, pulling her fork back petulantly. House managed a modest smile, and went back to his veal.

"Have you ever had sexual fantasies about me?" he asked sweetly. Cuddy flinched.

"My GOD you have an ego!"

"And you're blushing," he observed pointedly, not bothering to hide the gloat in his voice. "A nice soft tint of light rose to be exact. Not a fever, just a rise of body temperature due to . . . guilt, perhaps? Embarrassment?"

"And what do you use a prostitute for if not sex?" Cuddy broke in swiftly. House looked disappointed at the change of subject and pushed his zucchini around on his plate.

"I f you MUST know--Chlamydia cultures. Herpes samples. Once in a while, an interesting strain of thrush."

"You're . . . serious." Cuddy blinked, seeing the absolutely House-ian logic in collecting field samples. He gave a weary shrug, feeling a bit resentful in losing a reputation in one area only to gain it in another.

"Front line research—hey, we pay test subjects and blood donors for their time, why not hookers? Besides, they always have the most interesting stories to tell. In fact there was this one who was sharing out a trick involving handcuffs, a post and a crate of ripe figs . . ."

"Stop RIGHT there---" Cuddy insisted, holding up her hand and struggling not to look appalled, or more compellingly, laugh out loud. House managed a slightly smutty look and pushed his empty plate away. He poured more wine for both of them.

"Fine. Getting back to your fantasies of me—" he rumbled. "Which one is your favorite?"

"Oh let me think," she snapped back, eyes bright, cheeks still slightly flushed, "Maybe the one where you're groveling at my feet licking my toes while clean-shaven and wearing your lab coat?"

"THAT one," House dismissed, waving his hand. "The toe sucking has possibilities, but the rest of it really IS make-believe. I can do toes, but lab coats are beyond my range. Actually, groveling's pretty much out too—that's a Wilson thing. He'd probably LOVE to wear his lab coat for you."

"Then it's not much of a fantasy, is it?" Cuddy replied just as airily. "Now if I had Wilson doing a nice Chippendale's dance routine complete with bare chest, bowtie and little black thong . . ." She trailed off as she considered that image for a moment, batting her eyes. House grunted.

"He's too skinny and he dances like the Jewish white boy that he is."

"Oh, like YOU can shake your booty any better," Cuddy scoffed. House tried to give her a lofty look.

"All my best moves are horizontal. Trust me—I have references."

"I'll pass. It's my turn to ask a question," Cuddy sighed, pushing her own plate away. She'd only eaten half of the meal, but House opted not to chide her, particularly since she was caressing the stem of her wineglass in a promising fashion, her elegant fingers caressing it in long, tantalizing strokes. He waited patiently.

"Why the hell ARE you having dinner with me, House? It's not like you're going to get anything out of it but a bill and laugh or two over my post-Leno proclivities. You could have just dropped your bombshell about Hamilton and left, you know."

He lifted his glass and stared at the wine, noting the faint hint of pink in the cold gold of it, watched a drop of condensation roll down the curved side like a single tear.

The perfect moment to catch her off-guard.

"Because there are always open possibilities in any given point in space and time. If you believe in chaos, you know as well as I do that the thousands of permutations on a single moment, the endless variations and choices and options open to us are myriad, Cuddy. They range from the two of us winding up dead, pinned under an SUV crashing through the restaurant wall to Steve showing up, to both of us paged to the hospital to the patron next to us choking on his rigatoni, to you and me going back to my place and screwing each other senseless. And I for one am fascinated by the thought that any of them could happen. That one of them WILL happen."

She stared at him, not laughing, not scoffing, just . . . mulling over what he'd said.

"So you're considering us a pair of strange attractors?" Cuddy murmured back, resting her chin on her hand. House raised his eyebrows slowly. He felt a little heat rise to his own face, but figured that was probably just the wine.

"I consider as much as I can. And as I told you, I like veal."

"And I think you have ulterior motives, Greg. You have for almost every thing you do, so this dinner probably isn't the exception. You WANT something from me, and I'll be damned if I can figure out what it is, but I'm betting it has something to do with either getting out of clinic hours, or buying the Diagnostics department an Xbox 360."

House didn't reply, keeping his gaze on her, and Cuddy grew slightly self-conscious. She toyed with her pearls as the waiter came up, gesturing to the two plates.

"Box this up for the lady?"

"Yes please," Cuddy murmured. House made a moue, but the waiter smiled.

"And are we interested in the dessert menu?"

"I am, she might be and I really don't know if YOU'RE hungry," House replied, making the waiter blush a bit. The chastened boy handed House another, smaller menu and did the same for Cuddy after whisking away her plate. House shot her a look over the top of the menu.

"You didn't finish your dinner, so I really don't know if I can allow you to have dessert."

"Oh I'm HAVING dessert," Cuddy shot back. "The tab's running on this faux date, House, trust me. You're not getting out of the full meal deal."

"Sounds promising," he replied gleefully, instantly making her regret her choice of words. Cuddy pretended not to care and looked over the little menu with a scowl. House made a low purring sound.

"A full list of decadent delectables I wouldn't mind slurping off a naked female body," he observed; Cuddy pursed her lips, refusing to acknowledge the comment. They both studied the offerings a moment longer.

"Well?" House demanded softly. She closed the menu and set it down, stroking her hand over it. As she did so, Cuddy caught House's quick, intense glance following her fingers; a flare of intuition gave her insight. She smiled to herself.

"What are YOU having?" Cuddy asked to buy time. House sighed.

"Cherry chocolate cheesecake—it's both alliterative AND delicious," he snorted. "What about you?"

"Single scoop of homemade malted chocolate ice cream," she purred. "Sugar cone."

House stared at her, his expression shifting from surprise to a grudging admiration as he collected the menus. "You little fiend. Someone's been reading Nabokov."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Cuddy lied brazenly. House glared at her from under his brows as the waiter timidly came by again. House relayed the order and leaned back in his chair, eyeing Cuddy carefully.

"A tease. I always suspected you would be."

"I don't tease," Cuddy automatically responded, absently mirroring his posture on the other side of the table. House gave a dramatic sigh.

"Oh the hell you don't, little Miss low-cut blouses and sexy swagger. You COULD wear pantsuits and keep your hair up, you know, but that's not the case, is it, Cuddy?"

"Bothers you much, does it?" she replied with surprising gentleness. House blinked, realizing his volume had gone up. He opted for a faint sneer instead, wondering why he felt a little unsettled now.

"It doesn't bother me, per se," he replied. "It's just an observation. I'm not blind to your much flaunted femininity. I understand why you do what you do, even if I don't approve of it."

"And why should I care what you approve of, Greg? Certainly you've never cared what I approve of. I LIKE being who I am; I'm comfortable with my sexuality. Just because you aren't doesn't particularly faze me."

"Comfortable with your sexuality? This from the woman willing to throw herself at a blind date because she hasn't gotten any in at least three years?" That slipped out before House could think about the implications. Cuddy's gaze narrowed dangerously. She rose just at the waiter returned with the desserts, and with a sweeping gesture she grabbed the cone from him. In a quick turn she faced House, who was still seated, and deliberately shoved the huge scoop of ice cream down directly into his lap.

House yelped, his torso rocking forward. Cuddy left the cone jutting up at an obscene angle and patted his shoulder.

"Oops," she whispered, "Bet your chaos theory didn't cover THAT scenario." Cuddy swept out at that point, leaving him stunned and shivering as other diners whispered and pointed.

The doorbell rang, and with a rising sense of anger, Cuddy checked the peephole, knowing full who was there. She still felt the tense, hot emotions running deep in her; the anger and the humiliation and under it all a shameful self-loathing at losing control in public. Deeper than that was a tiny pang of sorrow; up until the end she'd actually been enjoying the night out with House.

"Open up, Cuddy, or I'll start yelling," House voice warned wearily through the door. "You know I will."

"I'll call the cops."

"No you won't—you'd never drag the hospital into this, and that's what would happen if I got arrested. Just open the door already."

She laid a hand on the wood, fighting with herself now, furious to feel herself weakening a bit. "Date's over, House. Go home."

"Cuddy—I have your al fresco and your apology here, neither of which should sit out all night."

The door opened; she reached for the Styrofoam box. "Okay, dinner delivered, now beat it."

House shoved his cane against the doorjamb and managed to wedge his shoulder in the opening as well; Cuddy glared at him, not surprised at his maneuvers. He stared down at her, his expression a clear mix of annoyance and determination.

"That's half of it. Going to let me in now?"

"No."

"Give me a break here, Cuddy. I'm cold, I'm pissed off and on top of it all I'm parked in front of a hydrant. The least I can get out of a hundred and twenty dollar dinner is a chance to say I'm sorry."

She glared at him a moment longer, then reluctantly opened the door just enough for him to squeeze into her foyer. In the semi-darkness he seemed very tall, looming over her. She put one hand on her hip while the other still held the Styrofoam box.

"You have two minutes."

"Jesus, I'm not on the debate team; you don't have to time me—" he groused, shifting a little awkwardly. Cuddy's expression stayed hard, and House pulled himself together. "Okay. That last crack of mine was definitely over the line and I apologize for making it, especially in public. I was rude, wrong and presumptuous which is nothing new for me. I guess I was a little thrown by the fact that you looked so good and were willing to have dinner with me in the first place, given that I'd sicced the police on your original date."

Cuddy looked at him for a beat after that; House looked back.

"That's it?"

"Pretty much," he agreed. Cuddy squared her shoulders.

"Okay then. I've got a few things to say myself." House winced, and Cuddy reached up to grab his chin; surprised, he let her. "First of all, thank you for dinner. Up until the end it was pretty good; you're not bad company for a sour old fart."

House looked as if he wanted to protest, but Cuddy squeezed his chin a little harder and wisely, he remained silent. "Secondly, I suppose I owe you thanks for getting me out of dating Hamilton—that remains to be seen. And last of all, why the HELL can't you just come out and admit you're attracted to me, House? I've put up with your pigtail pulling annoyances for years now—For God's sake just acknowledge that ONCE in a while you see me as more than your boss, okay?"

A long pause followed the last rush of her words, and the two of them stared at each other in the porch light, blue eyes on blue eyes. House narrowed his stare a little and she released his chin.

"You don't have another ice cream cone, do you?"

Cuddy fought her smirk. "No."

"Good. I'm not sure my cojones could take a second hit." He paused. "Of course I see more to you than being the dean of medicine, Lisa. We've got . . . " House hesitated and leaned his shoulder on the door jamb. " . . . history. Before you hired me. Before you treated me even. I've known you almost as long as I've known Jimmy, which is to say as long as I've been bounced from hospital to hospital. And that's what makes this more complicated than it should be."

"You're the one making it complicated, Greg. You and your calcified self-image. You talk up your medical genius and constantly disparage all the other parts of your personality just to drive people away. And damn it, you ARE an attractive man," Cuddy hissed, brushing back a strand of hair that drifted into her eyes.

"Right."

"Greg—" Cuddy gathered her patience, "Stacy was perfectly delighted to jump your bones for over half a decade. Can't you go with the assumption that other people might want to jump you as well once in a while?"

"Oh God, so THIS is what it's like to be sexually harassed!" House muttered in faux glee, his face contorting comically. Cuddy gave a frustrated sigh and began to close the door, but House caught the edge of it in his palm and stopped her, his expression shifting back to something more serious. His mouth twitched. "Okay, okay—it was childish but it felt good. Getting back to your comment though, I hadn't entertained the notion simply because the scenario was up until now always a one-way proposition. At least, outside of a hot fantasy or two here and there. The only women who fall at my feet have either tripped over my cane or succumbed to my aftershave."

"Some have seizures— of course, that could be a result of your aftershave too—" Cuddy pointed out. House shot her a look of grudging admiration, wagging a finger at her.

"Cruel yet witty. You see, you would have been SO wasted on Steve."

"Probably. But then again, we'll never know," she told him, suddenly tired. "So fine. You've delivered my leftovers and a fairly decent apology. That's probably better than I could have hoped for with Doctor Hamilton."

House squinted, looking up at a section of the door over Cuddy's head, his silence suddenly heavy; suspicious, she pursed her mouth. "No. Tell me you're not thinking what I THINK you're thinking."

"Hey, YOU brought it up with all your talk of strange attractors and bone-jumping. Don't blame ME if that sort of talk sets off my testosterone," House murmured defensively, feeling a hollow panic in his chest now. She was so close and so pretty in the porch light.

Cuddy gave a heavy sigh. "It wasn't even a date, Greg."

"Pfft! Of course not," he lied with an utter lack of conviction.

The two looked at each other then, and the humor left as quickly as it'd come, replaced by hesitation. It was House who broke the silence. "So . . . what happens now? Do you WANT to kiss me?"

"Yes . . . " Cuddy seemed to be having a difficult time forming words. " But what happens if we hate it? What happens if . . . " once again out of breath she let the sentence hang.

"I think the bigger question is what if we don't hate it? What if we decide this is as good as we both think it will be? That's the real danger, isn't it?'

Wordlessly, Cuddy nodded. Yes, that was indeed the real danger. That would mean there would be consequences. And they'd have to decide if they could live with those consequences. Or, on the other hand, they would have to live with knowing what they could have had, and not choosing it.

The air between the two of them was becoming charged. House was suddenly aware of the heightened pulse at the base of Cuddy's throat, under her pearls. He swallowed. Cuddy reached up and touched him lightly on the side of his face. The air almost shimmered now, almost visible with heat and anticipation. House licked his lips, then reached out and placed a warm palm softly on Cuddy's cheek.

The effect was spellbinding. Cuddy's beautiful eyes fluttered shut, and her lips parted. There was the slightest exhalation of breath - a whisper of a sound in the space of heartbeat. House was mesmerized, drawn into the composition of still passion painted under his fingertips. He paused, not from fear, but to hold for a timeless moment the loveliness of the sight before him. Finally, he leaned in and captured Cuddy's mouth under his.

Exquisite; warm and softer than he'd ever imagined. House realized with a flash of clarity that no one he'd ever kissed knew him as well as this woman did---no one was privy to so many of his secrets and so much of his soul. No one ever had been. That intimacy drove him down into Cuddy's mouth, into her arms. Suddenly, shockingly, the kiss went from something gentle into a fury of passion; possessiveness claimed him and made him want to shout with fierce joy at his victory. House would have felt badly about the strength he'd used, about the way he'd gripped Cuddy's long hair in his hand, or bruised her lips, but even in the haze of desire he was aware of Cuddy's own strength holding him, possessing him in turn.

Cuddy's soft moans tickled against his deeper ones, their pleasure mingling on as they shifted, kissing again in soft little thrusts into each other, mouths delighting in jolts of liquid heat. Passion, yes, but on the undercurrent of it lay the simple honest joy in the flare of a mutual attraction brought to life. This was Cuddy, accepting him, WANTING him, and that knowledge shook House down to the marrow.

He pulled back, needing breath, impatient at that need and looked at Cuddy, who reflected the same stunned epiphany on her face. She blinked, eyes slightly hazy with passion.

"Oh God. Greg . . ."

"Shhhh," he responded in a low whisper, "Having dessert here."

And Cuddy laughed, the sound muffled against his mouth once more as she pulled him inside the house. There would be time enough later to talk and fight and doubt; that was already their long established habit. But for this moment both House and Cuddy knew, instinctively, that these kisses on the doorstep were a beautiful start to the rest of it.

END


End file.
